


Who's Gonna Take You Home Tonight?

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet Dancer Dean, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Bullying, Castiel Saves Dean, Comfort/Angst, Disapproving Family, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kickboxer Cas, M/M, Trans Castiel, Trans Character, Transphobia, i don't know what got into me but i kinda like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was packing up when he heard a pair of shoes knocking against the hardwood floor. He turned around, smiling. “Hey, Cas, how was—?”</p><p>The smile immediately lifted like a bad carpet stain when he caught sight of his friend (boyfriend?). Instead of his usual tank top and jeans, he was wearing a dress. </p><p>Dean’s not one to enforce gender normalcies—obviously, coming from a guy who runs around in ball-hugging tights three times a week—but this was far from normal. It wasn’t a kaftan or a toga—finding out Cas was some aspirant frat boy, that would show some semblance to normal. </p><p>No, Cas was wearing a dress dress. The kind that was pink with frills puffing out at the bottom. Worst of all, he looked miserable. </p><p>Or the one where Cas saves Dean and both their worlds are forever changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who's Gonna Take You Home Tonight?

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a line by Against Me!’s song “True Trans Soul Rebel”.

Phantom footsteps echoed off the rustic stairway leading to the main floor. It’s rumored that the building is sitting on top of reservation that gave refuge to countless of casualties beneath the ground, leaving the spirits of the downtrodden no choice but to rise from the ashes of poverty and reclaim what was once rightfully theirs.

Dean doesn’t believe in much that he can’t see, but to be perfectly honest, he’d much rather take on a legion of some seriously pissed off poltergeists than face the reality of the situation. Alastair and his gang were the kind to hit first and never ask questions later. They were the best of the worst kind of bullies: ruthless, cunning, and creative. They were the guys that would get your face on every milk carton faster than the local authorities could say _hold fire._

Fortunately he hadn’t worn his leotard today, giving him more leg room (no pun intended). He quickly changed into his spare change of clothes—the ones he wouldn’t mind being caught dead in—and stowed any evidence in his bag.

Dean wasn’t ashamed of being a ballet dancer. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Ballet has and will continue to be his lifelong passion despite his father’s futile attempts at converting him into the wide world of manhood after Dean’s biggest supporter passed away. What he was ashamed of, however, was coming home and having to explain the assortment of bruises and welts on his body.

He would have been screwed to hell if he took up pointe this week. His toes would have been grinded down to raw nubs, rendering him useless in an attempted escape.

Dean raced down the flight of stairs, heading toward the back exit, when something tugs on his flats, sending him face-first into the tile. Above him came the congested chortle of one Alastair Rolston and his tag-along buddies. Knowing well enough that this was only the beginning, Dean rolled over and curled into fetal position. This made the boys roar even louder, like Dean was some comedian.

“You think you’re so smart, isn’t that right, _faggot_?” he snarled before peddling his foot into his stomach. Dean bit the inside of his cheek. “You think I won’t find a way to _break you_?” He put his foot over the side of his face until Dean could feel the grooves in his shoe brand his skin. “I will squash you like a bug, boy.”

Before he could follow through, Alastair was falling over Dean’s body with a loud _thump._ Dean angled his head; catching sight of a blue-eyed teen with his arms splayed in an invitation to the other boys. One—Dean wasn’t sure if he was brave or just plain stupid—advanced at him with a knife. Blue Eyes snatched the wrist with the knife and twisted it behind his head before throwing him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.

“Any more volunteers?” The two remaining boys glanced from comatose Alastair to the grieving boy in front of them before shaking their heads in a chorused _no_. “Then I highly suggest you and your fuck friends take a hike.” Dean watched them scamper away like two scalded hounds, completely deserting their two other fuck friends.

As much as he wanted to bask in the sight, Dean was no better off than the guy beside him. His entrails felt like his extrails and he’s pretty sure he had a mild concussion. Blue Eyes offered him a hand, which he promptly used to pull himself up.

“Wait, you’re not Dean, are you?”

Dean stumbled forward a little before answering the question. “Uh… yeah, do I know you?” because _excuse me, sir, back away from the handsome._ Aside from his ridiculously blue eyes, he had the kind of thick, dark hair that looked expertly fucked up. Seriously, his cheekbones had more structure than Dean’s life. Plus, he had these lips that looked like they’d been ironed out, causing them to crack a little at the seams, but still perfect for kissing.

“No, but my stepsister does,” he explained. “She’s in intermediate dance. Anna Milton. You’re pretty much all she talks about when I pick her up from practice.”

Dean chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “Hopefully good things.”

“To the last word,” he said, smiling shyly as he offered his hand again. “Castiel.”

“Dean,” he said, slipping his hand into his a little too comfortably. “I mean, obviously.”

Castiel’s expression turned gravely serious. “Listen, I’m sorry about, you know.”

“ _You’re_ sorry? Dude, you just pulled my ass from the fire. I should be the one saying sorry for hanging yours on the line. They were after me, not you.”

“I know, but—”

“Cas, can I call you Cas? First of all, none of this was your fault, you got that?” Castiel nodded. “Secondly, thank you, and third, where the _hell_ did you learn to fight like that?” This time, Cas grinned ear to ear.

“After five years of kickboxing, you start to pick up a thing or two.”

“ _Kickbo_ —fucking Christ, Cas, you’re awesome.”

Cas blushed a thousand ways from Sunday. “I don’t know about that.”

“Yeah, well I do,” Dean stressed, “and I say you’re fucking awesome.”

_One Hour Earlier_

“You’re fucking spent, Cas, hit the showers.”

Castiel tossed his instructor an incredulous glance. For a blind woman, Pamela sure was perceptive. Not to mention she could totally kick ass. She was like Matt Murdock minus the flashy red suit. “Pam, I’m good,” he promised. “Just a little rusty is all.”

“I can’t work with rusty. Not with the championships around the corner.”

Cas’s leg chanced another meeting with the punching bag. Granted he’s been doing this for a while, Castiel has built incredibly thick skin. His tolerance for pain consisted of everything from bruises to broken body parts. Once, he’d fractured his rib and didn’t even notice until the following day when he was slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“You won’t have to,” he replied, emphasizing each word with the swing of his fist.

In a desperate (and in spite of effective, highly dangerous) move, Pamela threw herself between Cas and the punching bag. Her hand found his shoulder and plaintively, she said, “Hit the showers, Cas.”

He slowly retreated to the locker room, shucking off his gloves and shin guards as he went. Once he reached the showers, the steam alone lifting the impurities from both his mind and his pores, he stripped into his birthday suit and climbed into a vacant stall.

For a solid minute, he just stood there, letting the running water beat off his skin. His muscles were sorer than a losing gambler. His body as a whole was practically glowing like a beacon of distress. That was more than evident by the circumference of his stomach alone. He tries to take better care of himself, honest, but sometimes eating was nearly impossible.

Another minute later, he stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He ran his hand across one of the many steamed mirrors hanging above the sinks, admiring his reflection. In hindsight, admiring was probably the wrong word. He turned around before ghosting his fingers along the new colors between his shoulder blades. Red covered the length of his back, but that one was quick. The iron wasn’t running for very long.

Cas found his locker and slipped on his casualwear before throwing his bag over his shoulder. Driving was going to be a bitch, but it was better than heading home early.

***

Dean felt like a teenager coming home past curfew. One of those things was true. The other, well… a) Dean didn’t have a curfew and if he did b) he wouldn’t be close to overstepping his boundaries. He glanced at his watch, triple-checking the time. 6:30, the same as it was ten seconds ago. The sun was just barely sinking below the purple and orange horizon and the sound of cars skidding down the main roads bleeding into the city were gradually becoming extinct.

Closing the front door was the most difficult task since the hinges tended to let out a piercing shrill.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Dean closed his eyes, soundlessly dealing himself the internal lecture before he could have the luxury of receiving the external one. He stepped forward, steeling himself for the inevitable. When he saw him on the couch with his hands between his knees, staring conveniently at the ticking time bomb on the wall, he knew was screwed to high hell. “Hey, man.”

“Don’t ‘hey man’ me like I’m one of your buddies.”

“Benny, you _are_ one of my buddies.”

“Good thing too,” Benny drawled in his thick Cajun accent. He stood up, crossing the few feet of camper-van-threshold (which, in his defense, had lakefront property) between them to examine Dean with a critical eye. “Who else’s gonna watch out for your ass?” After five years of putting up with Dean, Benny learned the tricks of the trade. Foundation didn’t cut it anymore.

As he watched Benny pull out a steak from the mini fridge, he said, “I can take care of myself.” Benny scoffed before handing him the frozen slab and sitting on the mattress opposite Dean.

“Yeah, and I’m Robert Plant.”

“No, you’re Jimmy Page. I’m Robert Plant.”

“Dean,” Benny said, “let me drive you home from practice.” There was once a time when the gravity in his words would weigh on his conscious like a sack of bricks. Now that he learned how to deflect any sort of concern anyone had for him over the years, Dean didn’t have that problem.

He swallowed the nostalgic lump forming in his throat. “It’s only a couple blocks.”

Benny looked like he was going to protest when he squared his jaw and leveled his icy blue gaze. But knowing better than anyone that Dean was as stubborn as an ox, he dropped it, and instead settled for wrapping his beefy arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him into a warm side-hug. That’s one thing he always liked about Benny. Even when he didn’t understand, he understood.

“So I take it steak for dinner is out of the question?”

“Like hell!” Benny exclaimed, snatching the object out of his hand. “You’re cookin’, chief!”

***

Castiel isn’t stalking. It’s called being concerned—totally legal.

He entered the studio and peered around the corner. The room was empty, save for one fair-haired boy with squared shoulders. He was hunched in the corner of the room, still in his tights. Cas could vaguely make out the thick beads of sweat running from his rosy neck to the small of his back. He was going to approach him when he noticed the phone pressed firmly to his ear.

"You know I can't do that—No, just listen to me, none of this is your fault, okay?—No, it's not like that, he doesn’t swing that way—How would I know? Because I know Benny, he's—I don't care what Dad says. He can tell it to my big, enormously fat—Hey, wait, Sam—Sam?" There was a faint pause before Dean retracted the device from his ear and said quietly, "I love you."

Cas made a conscious effort to evacuate the premises, but Dean was already turning around.

“Sorry, I was just looking for Anna,” he blurted.

“Oh, yeah, I think I saw her leave with Ruby.”

“I know.”

Dean shook his head. “Then why—?”

“I was actually looking for you,” he confessed, unthinking. He took a cautious step forward. “Everything okay?” Dean shoved his phone into his pocket. His amber-infused emerald eyes conveyed an intensity that put chills up Cas’s spine unlike his tone that held a levity that could easily trick any normal person into believing that everything was okay.

Luckily, Cas wasn’t normal people. “Yeah, everything’s fine. You know how siblings are.”

“Unfortunately, I do. Mine just ditched me for the B in apartment 23.” Dean laughed; a sound that Cas could never see anyone taking for granted. “Which brings me to a slight hiccup in my plans… see, my parents loan me the car to chauffeur obnoxious stepsiblings, but since Anna hitched a ride with someone else, I was wondering if you, uh—”

“Cas, are you asking me to be your obnoxious stepbrother?”

“Basically, yeah,” he replied, heaving a nervous laugh. Dean chuckled again, deep and beautiful.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Dean tossed him a wink in throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Lead the way Mr. Miyagi.”

***

“This is your car? Holy shit, it's a _dinosaur!”_

“Correction, it’s my parent’s car.”

“Still,” Dean persisted, climbing into the Continental’s backseat. “It’s a ’78 with a 365 HP four-barrel. Probably gets you, what, twenty miles to the gallon at best on the freeway?”

Cas gaped at him through the rearview mirror. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“You sound surprised.” Cas laughed at that.

“I’m sorry; it’s just how does a ballet dancer have above-average knowledge in automobiles?”

Dean tossed him a lopsided smile as he set his bag on the floorboard and spread out on the leather. Note that he was still wearing his tights, making some objects in the mirror _larger_ than they appear.

Cas jammed his key into the ignition with trembling hands. Dean pointed him in the right direction as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

“My dad owns an auto shop on Borrowdale Drive,” he explained. “I used to help him out on the weekends for extra money. But he’s an old grunt and I hate working with cars, so.”

Cas lifted his brow. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” he replied, ducking his head so Cas wouldn’t see his blush. “Hey, do you mind if I, uh—?” Dean cast him a fleeting glance in the mirror, gesturing to his tights, and Cas knew he was screwed.

“Oh, y-yeah, no problem,” he stammered. Before he knew it, he was white-knuckling the steering wheel and praying to whoever had their ears on that he didn’t hit any red lights.

Dean put on his shirt first—something pitch black with a thunderbolt in the middle—then proceeded to divest himself of his leggings.

Just Cas’s luck, the gods turned on him. The _one time_ he asks for help and he gets thrown the bird. _Don’t_ pull a Gary Busey. Look anywhere but that long golden line of skin that was his legs and thighs and that little guy wagging hello that was definitely a penis.

Cas swallowed thickly. Why did he have to be Busey?

The sound of three concurrent horns blaring at him stirred his attention to the traffic around him. The overhead light flashed green and Cas hit the gas, speeding away from his thoughts. If Dean noticed the surrounding drivers shooting daggers at them (thank God it was only metaphoricaldaggers; this _was_ Kansas after all), he didn’t comment. Luckily, he had a turn a half a mile ahead.

At first, he thought Dean was joking. The road he turned on crunched under his tires like that one person who brings a bag of chips to a movie. Everything turned into asphalt and nature.

Then he saw it. “Oh my God,” he breathed, putting the car in park. “You _live here?”_

Dean poked his head between the two front seats. “It’s no castle or anything, but it works.”

“Are you kidding?” he said, eyes never leaving the camper. He wasn’t looking there, though. His eyes were on the expanse of water behind it, glittering orange and yellow from the sunset behind it. “It’s _beautiful._ ” Dean smirked next to him, laying his elbow across his shoulder.

Cas craned his head, catching Dean’s emerald eyes, spangled with more sparkles than the lake stretched before them. “Thanks for the ride.”

“My plea—” Dean cut him off with a chaste kiss. _Oh._ “So… I’ll, uh, see you next week?”

Dean crawled out of the backseat, slinging his bag back over his shoulder as he went. There was no way Dean could hide the blush smothering his face as he replied, “See you then” before racing up the steps leading to his door. Cas’s fingers lingered on his lips before he pulled out of the driveway.

He drove home with one hand that night.

***

Dean was packing up when he heard a pair of shoes knocking against the hardwood floor. He turned around, smiling. “Hey, Cas, how was—?”

The smile immediately lifted like a bad carpet stain when he caught sight of his friend (boyfriend?). Instead of his usual tank top and jeans, he was wearing a dress.

Dean’s not one to enforce gender normalcies—obviously, coming from a guy who runs around in ball-hugging tights three times a week—but this was far from normal. It wasn’t a kaftan or a toga—finding out Cas was some aspirant frat boy, _that_ would show some semblance to normal.

No, Cas was wearing a _dress_ dress. The kind that was pink with frills puffing out at the bottom. Worst of all, he looked miserable.

“Cas, what—?” Then he saw it: the bruises decorating his shoulders and neck. “ _Oh, Cas_.”

“No, don’t you _dare_ feel sorry for me,” he hissed, tears streaming freely down his face. That’s when Dean saw he was also wearing makeup. “That’s all anyone ever does.”

He reached for Castiel’s arm, but he flinched away. “Cas—”

“Don’t you mean Cassandra?”

“No, I mean _Cas,_ ” he said inflexibly, dropping his dance bag between them. “And I wasn’t going to feel sorry for you. I was gonna ask if you wanted a spare change of clothes.”

Cas tossed a wretched yet hopeful glance between Dean’s bag and the owner. “But, I mean, you’re already dressed…” A pause, then: “How did you know?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to wear a black binder underneath white t-shirt?”

Cas sniffed, a slow smile spreading across his face. A ragged laugh escaped him as he said, “No, no one’s ever told me that.” Then, with shaking hands, he reached around and unzipped his dress.

Dean watched the garment fall to the floor before he pulled Cas in for a long overdue hug. “I got you, Cas,” he whispered unevenly into his ear, securing his arms tight around his middle. “You’re okay. Fuck that, you’re more than okay. You’re beautiful; don’t let anyone tell you different.”

When Cas drove Dean home that night, it was with one hand inside of his.

***

“Higher… hi—no, lower. Higher.”

Dean was standing unsteadily on the edge of a table chair, mounting something that held high value in their hearts and their living room, apparently. “Hi—what do you mean higher?!” Cas chortled, obviously taking great pride in his husband’s all-too apparent frustration.

“Okay, there.” With a huff, Dean _finally_ hung it on the nail above the mantel. He stepped off, standing beside Cas to admire the piece. Behind a cardboard frame was a newspaper cutout from the _Kansas City Star_. Below the fold was a picture of Cas holding up a championship belt. “Kansas Kickboxing King Strikes Again”, it read. “It’s perfect,” he commented, leaning into Dean’s side.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t want it a little higher?” Cas slapped his chest.

“Suck my dick.”

“You’re never gonna stop saying that, are you?”

“Hey, I _earned_ this,” he said, grabbing his crotch.

Smiling, Dean pulled him into his side to kiss him on the mouth. “Yes you did.”

None of this would have been possible without a few alterations. Ten years ago, Dean moved back into his house, begrudgingly facing the verbal abuse from his father, but glad to see his kid brother. Dean made his bed when he left, so he knew it was only to be expected when he laid in it again.

Eventually, the tide settled and they became a family again. He was there the day Sam got his acceptance letter in the mail (Stanford Law, what a fucking trip) and the day he had his first heartbreak—two of the biggest moments in his brother’s life that he wouldn’t trade for a day he could have been spending on his toes.

There was a brief stint when ballet became the second most important thing in his life, but that was only because of Cas. Once he finished high school, he worked his ass off in the shop saving up for an apartment for the two of them that unsurprisingly turned into a camper by the lake before Cas hit it big with his tournaments. Then it was a _cabin_ by the lake.

Cas still visits his old roommate, Benny Laffite, on occasion. (“I’m literally a stone throw away,” he said one night when the three of them were swapping beers and old stories—usually the ones that embarrassed Dean in some way. “You have no excuse not to see me.”) He claims his door is always open if either one of them ever gets into an argument with the other and needs to vent since he can’t pick sides with two of his longstanding friends.

They’ve had their share of arguments, but they usually end up being resolved in the bedroom.

Tonight’s game plan is to take a picnic basket outside and watch the sunset. For as macho and physically able as Cas is, he turns into a gushing teenager when he talks about Mother Nature. Evidently, it came to the point where it’s nearly impossible for Dean to focus on the fading sunset when he’s staring openly at his husband, wondering how on Earth he ever got so lucky.

It’s when he passes by the old studio on the way to his dance recitals that he remembers.

***

 

 


End file.
